"Small" writing challenges for my small writing talent. Hotel note pads are the only space allowed. Let's see if I can strip it down and tighten it up to learn something. Improving my skill of weird fiction.
I met Harold last night. Getting to know him was engaging to say the least. In fact that term can’t even come close. I fell in love with what I saw. His eyes were a clear white surrounding a crystal blue. Broad shoulders commanding a confidence. His muscles exceptionally toned for middle-age, enveloping his strong solid bones head to toe. When I finally felt his hands, they were of a working man, yet so soft to the touch. His fingers were straight and beautiful. Most men near middle-age I involved myself with have some signs of arthritis or a skin disorder somewhere. Not Harold. He only had a single tattoo from a life over the ocean. Noble service. Harold was made of so much perfect. We were going to get along very well.
My friend has a place. It’s small and not perfect but for someone who travels and frequently moves around, it’s a cozy home for only what he needs. I took Harold there the next day, today. My friend was also taken aback by Harold’s qualities at first sight. I can’t believe there wasn’t a line to claim him. My friend looked closely at Harold and then smiled at me. He could tell good or bad right away.
“Well, such a fine man this? Not the usual sort eh?”
I looked down with a smirk. Hands clasped together. My nails were embarrassingly dirty. I hadn’t had a chance to clean up since I worked so late. The polish is chipping off. My friend appreciated Harold the way I did. His arms, the muscle tone, the fore-arm eagle tattoo. Art so intricate. Harold had seen adventure and took care of himself.
Looking pleased, my friend said, “Harold’s a very good one. Ow’s fifteen-undred sound?”
I giggled a bit, “Oh that’s just fine.”
Two men In smocks carried Harold to the back room where ice chests, saws and pruning shears waited. My friend looked in the room, always transfixed by the operation, while passing over a fist sized money-roll.
“Keep bringin’ me great parts, Jess, and you’ll be a rich girl. Harold’s a good-un indeed.”
I stepped through the cruddy screen door to the outside, orange-lit dawn-break, “Nah, I won’t be get rich, I’ll just be a doctor without student debt.”
I headed back to campus to catch up on sleep. Class at ten. A girl’s gotta get through med school somehow.
(Author’s Notes) Airborne at 38,000 ft. between Indianapolis to Denver: August 7th, 2015. 405 words.
I had just slept in a recliner for five hours after finishing a 4-day trip. It was 10 pm and the first flight home was early morning. It didn’t make sense to drop the equivalent of $10/hr of sleep in a hotel. I woke up and honestly have no idea why or how some ideas come to me except perhaps, I did feel a little dead. Dead. Dead things…hmm. Yesterday in NYC’s LaGuardia airport, I saw some posters up about human trafficking and to be on the lookout. Wait a minute, trafficking of dead things? Okay now I have a story here. Let’s introduce some screwing around with the mind. Body parts trafficking, a love story. I had with me a boarding pass. The back was clear so after typing the story I wanted I decided to see if I could make it fit on the card. It just barely fit. The end of the story text on here was just a bit longer than on the card and after a bit of editing, I cut a bit out. This one went together clean and was a wonderful exercise is messing with the readers mind and expectations. Only after, did you catch the earlier clues that she wasn’t interested in what you thought?